


The Sort of Thing They Ban

by Jennifer-Oksana (JenniferOksana)



Series: The Sort of Thing They Ban [1]
Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-14
Updated: 2015-11-14
Packaged: 2018-05-01 13:08:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5207000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JenniferOksana/pseuds/Jennifer-Oksana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You come to me like a moth to the flame/It's love you need but I don't play that game/Cause you could be my greatest fan/But I’m nobody’s friend, I’m a demolition man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sort of Thing They Ban

I don’t think Angel understands how well I know him. No, that’s not quite true. I don’t think Angel realizes how well I know Angelus. There are mentions of him throughout the chronicles and prophecies that Watchers collect fetishistically, and when I was told that I was being assigned to Sunnydale and that Angelus was residing there, I did my research.

Angelus was a sick fuck and a truly magnificent bastard–and I’m almost ashamed to admit to myself that the monster still holds more appeal for me than the man. Angel is my friend and someone I mostly admire, but when I follow him up to his room, I’m searching for Angelus.

The part that frightens me, the part that makes it irresistible, is that I don’t understand why I do it.

“Why do I let you up here?” Angel asked me one night, drawing his fingers across my throat, pausing to feel my pulse. The sensation of cold fingers lingering against the vein was terrifying. It turned me on. It always does. “No, I know why I let you up here. Why do you come?”

If he knew why, he had the advantage of me.

“Would you rather I didn’t?” I asked, watching the look in his eyes. “I don’t have to, you know. If you think it’s too risky–I could leave.”

“God, no,” he said, settling that cold touch on my shoulder. If he wanted to, he could snap my neck with one hand. I thought about it. Thought about the way Angelus would do it, with a smile. No, I corrected myself, with a kiss. With one of those long kisses where you could feel the sharpness of teeth as they tugged at your lip, one of those savage, dangerous kisses that left you breathless. Angelus would give me a kiss and as I lay there looking up at him with mindless desire–

snap.

Goodbye, lover. Hope you had fun.

Because I did.

That was exactly as it would happen and the knowledge was a comforting and horrible thing to have as Angel slowly took off my shirt. I let him do it without protest–Angel, being Angel and ashamed of his former bastardhood, likes to be in charge of taking care of ridiculous, selfloathing me. At least, I imagine that’s how he thinks of it, because fucking Angel is like playing with a gun with the safety off. And he knows it.

The shirt got caught on my glasses. I was obliged to finish taking off both by myself–and all of the other clothing for good measure. Angel moved away and followed every movement with his eyes. I can never tell if he’s afraid or if he simply likes to watch.

There’s so much about Angel that I don’t know. I only know the important things. Just that the demon is waiting for an opportunity and that if I play my cards right–

“Do you like it?” he asked, face clouded by thought. “This, I mean.”

It’s dangerous when Angel thinks too much. He’s too melancholy. Dark thoughts lead to despair with him. Then he blames himself for the fallout. I didn’t want to deal with blame.

“Usually,” I said, reaching out toward his waiting body.

He pulled back with a sharp breath in–need to or no, vampires have a hard time remembering they don’t breathe–and held himself still. Too still. Reminded me that I was technically fucking a corpse, which was too disturbing to consider.

“Have I hurt you?” he asked, sounding horrified.

I didn’t have an immediate answer. He had hurt me more than once and I hadn’t and didn’t care. But if he knew I didn’t care, he would stop (or he wouldn’t) and later, he’d find a way to make it far worse than it needed to be.

“Never,” I lied, forcing myself to be genuine, to be what he wanted. Sincere. Worshipful. A bit of a fool. A bit more like the man I was a year ago, six months ago.

“Don’t let me hurt you,” he warned me, lowering cold lips to my chest. “It’s not worth it.”

He doesn’t know that’s everything that’s worth it. The feeling of cold hands stroking my warm skin. The way my skin immediately registered every inhuman touch, shuddering with the danger and the desire. Closing my eyes and willing my muscles to relax. I wanted the cold and the dark to drown me.

Angel nibbled down, trying just to nibble, trying to nip between tastes of skin. He wanted the taste of the skin to be enough. But I didn’t move. The taste is never enough. Angelus would never be content with the feel of warm skin under his teeth without

blood.

I moaned when his teeth broke the skin. My fingernails dug into his back, willing the contact not to break. The back of my head wondered what the neighbors would say about all the noise. Then I remembered he didn’t have neighbors. Only ghosts–and the ghosts probably understood.

He pulled back. I looked up at him dizzily. His lips were only a little redder and the sight of them only made me harder.

He tried to say something, but I shook my head. No. No guilt. No thinking. His eyes glittered dangerously. I knew he wasn’t completely in control of himself. Yes. I wanted that.

He licked his lips, running his tongue over the blood. My blood. My hips bucked involuntarily and I took a gasping, ragged breath.

Demon lover. A figure of speech I obviously took far too seriously as a boy. When women want demon lovers–hell, when men want demon lovers– they don’t try to call up a true demon. But I was the exception. I needed that dark demon glitter that was Angelus. I even liked it.

I didn’t know why. Maybe there wasn’t any why. Maybe there was too much why, which is exactly the same as none anyway.

Angel pressed his fingers into my lips hard, and my wanting reached a fever pitch. I wanted him any way I could have him, it didn’t matter who he was or what game he wanted to play. I pulled his finger into my mouth and bit down until I could almost taste blood, refusing to break eye contact.

Finally he looked away, pulling his hand away from me, his emotional state completely unreadable except for a little smile that crossed his face.

Then he leaned over and kissed me, pinning me to the mattress as he held my arms against the bed, rubbing his hips against me lazily as I tried to move. Unfortunately, he had the advantage of weight and superhuman strength and I was reduced to writhing and whimpering like a neurotic virgin.

“You have a very nasty streak in you,” he murmured to me after loosening his grip and feeling my hips almost fly to the ceiling with desire. “I like it.”

I could see the top of his head sink to my thighs. It was suddenly cold against my inner thigh, wet and slightly cold as his tongue teased against the skin, daring me to move. I knew better than that. Angelus and even Angel wouldn’t stand for such rank disobedience.

Between gasps and moans, I suddenly remembered one of the more lurid Angelus stories that I’d heard during my training. I had been trying to seduce a beautiful American girl over our books–not doing too badly, I might add–when she’d pulled out a casefile from the 1870s and started telling me in a clear and clearly aroused voice about one of the many young women who’d fallen prey to him.

Her name was obliterated by the tease of smooth teeth against my thigh, but I remembered every syllable of her voice stumbling over the words.

“I was forced to uncover Miss Wilson’s entire body during my investigation, including those areas that only a husband should see. To my horror I discovered that before her brutal death, Miss Wilson had been a willing party in her own defilement by the scourge Angelus–”

I heard the growl in his throat as Angel’s teeth drew the skin on the inside of my thigh taut. I cried out, forcing myself not to move. The man was trying to kill me. I wanted his mouth on my cock, and I wanted it five minutes ago.

“Clearly fascinated by the evil and unnatural carnality of Angelus, Miss Wilson had allowed him, in her fevered desire, to wound her in immodest areas–I am forced to come to this conclusion by the lack of struggle evident on the body–”

I still couldn’t remember her name. Angel nipped again, and his hands held my hips still. His fingers kept squeezing tighter and tighter. There would be bruises later.

I moaned again. “For the love of God,” I managed to say. “Angel.”

“Beg me,” his muffled voice ordered me.

Every masochist wants to be broken, body, heart, and soul. Who better than a willing torturer?

“Please,” I whispered. “Suck me off, make me come, anything you want to do, but please do it. Now. I want your mouth on me. Please, Angel, please. I want you.”

His tongue swirled around the head of my cock tangentially and pulled away. The tease. The bastard.

“Please. Deeper. God, don’t play with me. I’ll do anything. But please- -”

He made a humming sound, taking me in deeper. I wailed.

“God–” I whispered as Angel stopped torturing me and started sucking me off properly. Bloody expert he was at it, too, curving his tongue in a way calculated to make me crazy as he moved up. Besides that, he knew all best spots to pause at, the place to linger.

I wanted to move. Jesus God, I wanted to thrust and everything was dependent on not moving. He was taking care of me. It was too slow. My blood was boiling and he knew that. He would kill me. For fun.

“Faster,” I managed to hiss through clenched teeth. “You’re going to kill me.”

To my horror, he stopped. He pulled away and I whimpered.

“You don’t tell me what to do,” he said quietly. “Do you?”

“No,” I said, shuddering.

“That’s right.” The demon was shining in his face. I knew whatever was coming would hurt. “Spread your legs a little further.”

I did exactly what he said.

“Good. Further.”

Further would hurt, but I did it, all the while watching his expression, trying to get a clue about what would come next.

“Very, very good,” he said, licking his fingers. “Are you sorry?”

The sick bastard. He was going to put me through all my paces. And I was going to let him.

“Yes, I’m very sorry,” I said. “Very, very, very sorry.”

“Are you going to behave?” he asked, running one finger down my length. I bit my tongue to keep from moaning.

“God, yes,” I said.

“That’s my good boy,” he said before deep-throating me and moving like a runaway train or something fast and brutal and deliciously painful. I stopped talking in actual words. I managed quite a lot of moans and word-like noises. But no words as he moved up and down in a dark blur.

Good boy. That’s what he wanted. That was how I would get to get off. I had to be good. I was good. I was very very good as he pumped and swirled and drove me closer

closer

over the edge. I screamed his name, broken and lost and utterly wanton in the final surrender.

He rode it out with me, bringing me down from the gasping high until I was still against the sweaty sheets. He let me lay there, almost asleep with exhaustion and satisfaction. But then he laid his head next to mine and his eyes were still alight with wickedness.

“Don’t go to sleep,” he whispered. “It’s my turn.”

I opened my eyes as he pulled me to him for another rough kiss and smiled, resigned to my fate. I had called down my demon and had gotten exactly what I wanted from him. I knew the rules.

Demons always get paid in full.

It was time to settle accounts.


End file.
